THINK FAST

the elevator arrives but u forget why ur there

too many days saying not this

or [worse] hearing not chu

Apr 15, 2025
  •  
Poetry

We are now closed for submissions until Oct. 1st.

Our brand new Vol. 4 is available for purchase at the link below!
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The Pro

Dad was a classically trained toilet paper tosser. A disciple of Auburn University, where fans celebrated home football victories by plastering the college’s trees in white tissue. He used to say that over there in east Alabama, everyone was a pro like him, that even the toddlers and the elderly rocketed rolls into the highest leaves, that it must have been some kind of anomalous athletic gift akin to the flexibility of Russian gymnasts or the jaw muscle stamina of hotdog eating contest winners—in the case of Auburn’s toilet paper lofters, some genetic advantage in the wrist tendons maybe, or perhaps the forearm.

Apr 14, 2025
  •  
Fiction
Tuesday is Fry Day, 1989

Before sunrise,

a red-blooded man

says he can cook

me a Bundy burger

if I want one...

Apr 14, 2025
  •  
Poetry
We Know Our House Meant Something to You

We know our house meant something to you, but the thing is, to us, it’s just our house. Our home. Nothing more.

Apr 13, 2025
  •  
Fiction
For Logan

Have you eaten? I have. I’ve eaten your order.

Apr 13, 2025
  •  
Poetry
Baby Racoons

Yeah live forever mood

as a minnow school

flutters patches of pond

& gramps jumps into one of those

haggard, saggy, where am I? naps.

May 21, 2024
  •  
Poetry

Our chapbooks

Our chapbook contest may be closed, but past poetry and fiction winners are still available for purchase! Check out what we have on sale on our Submittable.

i'm slime

but that doesn’t mean i’m

            not deserving of

kindness.

May 10, 2024
  •  
Poetry
What If Pop-Punk Kids Lived Forever

What if Jefe’s never got condemned, if

The Backyard never changed management, if Tiny

Robots still played gigs.

Apr 9, 2024
  •  
Poetry
A Sign of God

It’s raining the day she meets her first grandchild. Soon there are five of them, small and dirty and sweet-smelling. She’s easy with them, more so than with her own children. She calls them devils when they come to her, holding out worms and candy.

Aug 7, 2023
  •  
Fiction
You’re All in Big Trouble

Mrs. Gwynn’s markering made that butcher paper sing. Person! It chirped in my right ear. Person! It cooed in the left. Person! It ballyhooed around my legs and feet. Her nostrils widened, then her face drew tight. I knew she smelled the sharp tang of milk parlor on me, chlorinated-manure stink that went deeper than scalding water and soaps. I was proud.

Jul 17, 2023
  •  
Fiction
[Horns everywhere]

a whole gigantic marching band, one that used to be louder than bulldozers, louder than  jets, louder than Aunt Catherine after three margaritas (no salt)

Jun 19, 2023
  •  
Poetry
Partition

I hoped you’d grow into a southern red oak speaking of your roots and the struggle for sun.

Jun 6, 2023
  •  
Poetry
Side Cars are for Bitches

Zach Braff is the perfect manic pixie dream boy
for any pet funeral, and yet, I suppose
he didn’t get the memo that he was meant


to come down from the Garden State and do the honors.

Feb 22, 2023
  •  
Poetry
Half Past 11:00

HALF PAST 11:00 sleeps in my bed and refuses to be

roused. I tuck the sheets in tight before I leave for work

Feb 15, 2023
  •  
Poetry
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